


Distraction

by starluff



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starluff/pseuds/starluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in his own house by the weather, and trapped in his own mind by his memories, Watson looks to find something, ANYTHING, to occupy his mind. Set during the beginning of STUD, after lodging with Holmes but before joining the case. Non slash. Written for Watson's Woes JWP: Writer's block.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

If you've ever tried to write more than a thousand words (a thousand _decent_ words, mind, there is a difference) then you'll know. Know the frustration as you try to get something down and fail, like your in a small, cramped room and the only door is locked. So you try to pick at it, the lock to your inspiration, yet the more you try, the more you fail.

There was probably more merit to those words than a simple analogy of the whimsical, Watson thought. At least, he was actually in a room. It wasn't locked or small, but it may as well be from the likeliness of the invalid getting out. It was cold out. An understatement if ever there was one but there you go. That was the base of it, the bare reason why Dr. John H. Watson, late of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a darn good surgeon, a soldier of the army, couldn't leave his flat.

Because it was cold out.

It was humiliating and it chafed at his pride. Oh, you could say that it was _very_ cold out; a slushy rain was falling and the icy chill had successfully broken any hope of feeling completely warm and dry; any man in his right mind would be snug at home as well. But despite the sharp cold and icy streets, those same men were capable of leaving their snug homes, and therein lie the sting.

Earlier, Watson had thought that he might leave the house to replenish his stationary supplies (even if he had nothing to write), breathe fresh air, get some exercise, do _something_. But Providence had other plans and right after breakfast, the temperature dropped. Every icy breeze brought in through the window caused his wound to ache and throb. Even now, with the windows closed, the barricades up, and a fire alive in the hearth, it ached. Moving it made it throb. Extensive exercise, like moving his arm or picking something up, would make it burn. And so, he dared not do anything, though he loathed it from the bottom of his heart.

He was sulking and he knew it. This was hardly a hardship, merely a trifle compared to many others. Some had lost limbs, many their lives. He, at least, had escaped with all his limbs; he still had two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs. Those were blessings to be counted and should not be taken for granted. The problem was just that he was _bored_. He had nothing to do. Life, for the moment, presented no other merits than just _living_. He breathed and ate and did all that life requires and no more.

 _I must find something to do or else I'll go mad._ So, Watson got up, slowly and painfully, out of his armchair by the fire and decided that, perhaps he would write something. Anything, it didn't matter. Perhaps a novel. He could publish it and make something out of this house arrest. Maybe he'd end up famous. Watson smiled at that whimsical thought. For Watson, being an author had always been that dream that you never intend to fulfill, yet you dream it anyway. He'd had ideas, characters and experiences and thoughts, but they never molded into a proper structure in his head, so a dream it stayed. Perhaps now, with all the time in the world and no distractions, was his chance to realize this dream. Perhaps it was divine intervention.

Except that he couldn't think of a deuced thing to write.

He sat now, armed with pen and ink and a journal to write it all up in... and nothing to write.

His shoulder's ache was steadily increasing, probably from moving from one end of the room to the other. Surely a herculean task. The pain was in his shoulder but it affected his mind greatly and made him incapable of focusing on the task at hand. It was all he could think about, the steady throbbing. The tick of the wall clock. The sounds of passers-by. The feel of the fabric of the arm of the chair on which he sat as he rubbed his palms against it. He winced as the movement aggravated his shoulder. He tried to fight it, but fighting always has the opposite effect, so his failure was inevitable.

He began to remember the way he got the wound in the first place.

That memory was much like a sun. He may try to escape it but the gravitational pull was, of yet, impossible to do so. What he needed was another sun to latch onto, another thought, some kind of distraction. Pretty hard to do when your trapped in your own house, trying to write words that would not come. _Accept it, man, you will write no words today,_ he thought ruefully. So, it was back to the arm chair by the fire, an attempt to escape the echo of bullets, because the sound of gunfire always lead to-

Watson sucked in a breath and grabbed at his shoulder, feeling as if he could almost the feel steel enter there, ripping through flesh and blood. The sounds of people walking by in the street was replaced by screams and gunfire, the hot, sweltering sun-

 _Stop that!_ Watson got out of his arm chair and hurried to the window, throwing it open. The cold air did little to help his shoulder, which was now on fire, but it helped to dispel the illusion. He stood there for a moment, letting his head clear, before closing the window with an air of purpose. Either he would read a novel or, if that proved to be as impossible as writing one, he would clean up. Anything, anywhere in the house, he just needed some distraction.

Fifteen minutes later found Watson calling for a cup of tea and sorting his books in alphabetical order.

And, in so doing, he found a certain Persian slipper.

 _What the devil?_ The doctor picked up the slipper and looked inside but the close proximity only confirmed his suspicion. _He puts his tobacco... in a Persian slipper._ Was it even clean? Watson was bemused, to say the least.

More importantly, the discovery brought up a line of inquiry: his fellow-lodger. Sherlock Holmes was easily the most enigmatic man Watson had ever encountered. His every action and word was wrapped in mystery and intrigue. He simply didn't add up. His expertise in chemistry – despite not studying medicine – yet ignorance in other things; his violin solos; his knowledge of so many criminal cases; the way he knows things without having had any chance to know, like how he knew that I was from Afghanistan. His boundless energy and black moods. He was a study in contradictions, as - far as Watson was concerned. Or perhaps he was just unorthodox.

Yes, that was a good description. Unorthodox. Watson had never before met someone who cared quite so little about propriety and social niceties. When he felt like it, Holmes could be very charming but he only ever did if he had something to gain by doing so. Otherwise, his frank manner usually aggravated people. At first, Watson had been just as annoyed as the rest, but Holmes had made sure not to over step the boundaries in this precarious partnership, so he never got too insulted. But as they grew more and more comfortable with each other, so, too, did Holmes's manner become more lax. It was not intentionally insulting or condescending, simply frank and open, his complete and honest opinion. It was refreshing, even if a little annoying. It was very much growing on Watson.

With further inspection, in which he convinced himself he was just tidying up and not actually seeing what other eccentricities his fellow-lodger he had been up to, he was not disappointed. A letter, fixed to the mantlepiece by a jack knife. And, if that wasn't the strangest thing, Watson's first thought upon seeing it was, _waste of a perfectly good jack knife._

Watson sighed as he leaned back in the comfortable arm chair and stared into the fire, thinking about his fellow-lodger, when a thought struck him.

His shoulder didn't hurt anymore.


End file.
